


Gently, Gently

by deandatsgay (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingering, Fisting, Godstiel: Cas as God, Kind of consort/sex slave Dean, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:59:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/deandatsgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We are working on two lessons, actually. The first is trust." Castiel quickens the thrust of his fingers, punching deeper, breathier sounds from Dean's mouth. "The second is that you can do more than you think yourself capable. You do not trust me not to hurt you. You do not think you can take my fist."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gently, Gently

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this fic is Godstiel fisting Dean. I applied the rape/non-con warning, but it's more extremely dubious consent. 
> 
> Please leaves kudos or comments! <3

If someone had asked, Dean would have kept the words locked tight in his chest as he slammed his fist into their throat; but in his heart, behind his teeth, he would admit Cas (Castiel; Cas is gone, no matter what the deity says) isn't a terrible God. 

He isn't anymore terrible than the last one, anyway. Dean thinks. Dean guesses.

God, he needs a drink.

"Castiel," he rasps. "I need a drink."

"You need only what I give you," Castiel responds, curt and low and so damn self-assured Dean wants to slap the somber expression from his face.

Dean ignores the ache of what if's, could have been's, the phantom memories of the pride and warmth he once felt in the glow of Cas's confidence and assurance. He fights against the urge to roll his eyes.

"Your heart is too muddled," Castiel says, frowning, as he runs his hands over Dean's shaking thighs. "Your mind is too clouded. Allow your troubles to fade. I will take care of you now, Dean."

Like he's taking care of the rest of the world, Dean thinks, wishing he could muster more bitterness. The rest of the world is - very, very, very marginally slightly - better than it was before Castiel descended upon it. There are fewer monsters - fewer of the supernatural kind; the evils of humanity run rampant and bloody as ever - and the major threats of Armageddon have been wiped from existence. 

Literally.

Castiel destroyed any angel who had ever spoken wistfully (as wistful as angels could be) of the end of days, who had ever yearned for Paradise and an end to the world and the Hell that disturbed their vision.

Diligent and focused on protecting the fragile host of humanity, Castiel had planned an even greater genocide: death to any angel who questioned him, death to any angel who did not believe in his power, death to any angel who raised even a breath of grace to the Winchesters.

Dean finds it fairly fucking ironic that his submission bought the lives of angels who would have rather seen him dead (would have rather seen his brother, the thing he lives for, never be born.)

The warm slick of Castiel's fingers trailing along his ass brings Dean from the pointless, angsty crap tumbling in his mind. He swallows, lets his eyes drift closed as three blunt points press against his hole.

"I am going to teach you something today, Dean."

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't cry, doesn't even choke on a dry sob. He's more in control of his body and soul now than he ever has been, thanks to the other 'lessons' Castiel has taught him.

"What?" Dean breathes. Castiel's fingers slide to the hilt. It's an easy glide; Castiel has been fingering him for eternities (at least days...at least hours) and he can feel whatever mojo Castiel uses for lube warm and thick inside of him. Castiel had worked him open slowly, furiously, with one finger, and when the empty ache that once filled his soul began to flutter through his hole, Castiel had added a second. Without Castiel's brush of power, he would be sore, would be numb by now. Regretfully, thankfully, Castiel uses his power for evil, and Dean can feel all three fingers moving. "You gonna show me how to say my ABS'c backwards?"

Dean thinks he's used that line before. But Castiel's fingers are rubbing against him so good, brushing that pleasure-pain-everything-please spot inside of him, he decides he deserves an A for effort and the ability to speak in full sentences.

Castiel smiles. It is gentle, small, a breeze Dean couldn't feel if he hadn't seen the trees shake. It is so much like Cas that Dean has to look away.

"We are working on two lessons, actually. The first is trust." Castiel quickens the thrust of his fingers, punching deeper, breathier sounds from Dean's mouth. "The second is that you can do more than you think yourself capable."

These are old lessons, ones Castiel has been nailing to the chalkboard and shoving Dean's face in since the day he swore his fealty, loyalty and soul to the new God, since Castiel banished the Leviathans and darkest poison souls from his vessel. Ever since Castiel claimed Cas was back, claimed it was his unflinching love of humanity, of Dean, that guided him. 

He thought Castiel had learned Dean would never learn them, would forget everything he was taught as soon as he had a moment from Castiel's bone burning gaze.

The tip of Castiel's thumb rubs against the stretched rim of his hole. He tries not to gasp like a damsel in distress when the nail gently, gently grazes his hole (Castiel is always so gentle with him, now; penance for the wrath and unholy lust he unleashed upon Dean in those first months). His body tenses, though, clenching around Castiel's fingers, and he can't stop the heavy pant that spills into the air.

"You do not trust me not to hurt you."

Castiel says the words so quietly, softly, they settle rain drop light in Dean's soul. He has attempted to make amends for those mistakes he made, for those scars he left on Dean's skin, and it disgusts Dean how badly he wants to grant Castiel the absolution he craves. If Dean had the strength to forgive him, in these moments, he believes he would.

"Castiel..." Dean always finds himself at a loss to say when despair breathes in Castiel's heart. 

How can a mortal comfort a God? How can a good man want to heal the hand that has battered not only his spirit but the body and mind of those closest to him?

"You do not think you can take my fist."

If it were not for the grace locked tightly around his wrists, pinning them to the lush pillows Dean will never be used to, no matter how long he lives in the manor Castiel created for he and Sam, he would jump. Jump out of Castiel's hold, out of his skin and bones, out of his mind. Shock and surprise (how does Castiel even know what fisting is, fuck) tremble in his bones. Heat drenches his skin.

Dean doesn't know how to respond, how to react. He is almost grateful when Castiel presses their lips together. Castiel's eyes are open, unblinking and dark; he never shuts them, never wants to miss a beat of Dean's heart or a shudder of his body or a twitch of his muscles while he flies apart at the seams for his God. Dean searches them. It's futile, as he finds the same thing he always finds: nothing, everything.

Castiel kisses Dean's cheek, breathes him in deeply, before settling back.

"Lift your legs," Castiel instructs. "Place them on my shoulders."

"Wait," Dean says, even as he slides his calves over Castiel's chest. He almost wishes Castiel were naked instead of clothed in his shirt, tie and pants while Dean lays splayed wide and open and nude for him. But it's so mind-fuckingly-strange to see the entirety of Castiel's vessel, and the current situation is developing so rapidly, Dean doesn't think he could actually take any more oddness. "Wait. You're not - Castiel, you can't be serious."

Sighing, Castiel slides his fingers around Dean's hole until he rubs against Dean's prostate. He presses, pressure firm and hellishly delicious, and Dean shudders.

"Your first reaction is still to question me. To deny me. When will you trust that I know what I am doing? That I can care for you?"

"When you stop threatening to break my fucking ass."

Dean's huffed, ruffled response would sound stronger if Castiel hadn't thrust in deeper, tearing a moan from Dean's throat and mingling it with his words.

Castiel frowns. "I will not break you. I cherish your body, Dean, as I cherish your soul. I have promised to never again bring it pain."

"I don't - shit," Dean pants, sentence curdling when Castiel rubs his pinky against the flush of his fingers in Dean's ass. "I know, I know you don't want to hurt me. I trust that you don't want to hurt me. But....but shit, Castiel, fisting is - it's gonna hurt me. No matter how s-slow, fuck, fuck, it's gonna - it'll hurt."

"It will not," Castiel assures him.

More protests, ill-advised and pointless, struggle in Dean's throat. Castiel silences them, eradicates them as he did those who opposed him, when he eases three fingers from Dean's ass and begins to press four back inside.

"Castiel." It is a gasp, a prayer, a plea. Dean has only begged for Castiel twice, and his heart trembles, threatens to collapse, with the memories. Panic and fear, so sharply acidic in his blood, begin to pound, battering his now always raw and open heart, soul, body. "Castiel, I - "

It is only the tips of Castiel's four fingers breaching him, barely tipping into that deep, hot place where he loathes to love the feel of Castiel's touch, but it is too much. Castiel had taken him once, only once, with so much pressure, so much flesh and bone and spirit, and it had - hurt doesn't begin to describe the excruciating burn of four ofCastiel's fingers, angry and vicious, thrusting into Dean's too tight, too dry hole. Terrified and pained, Dean had screamed for the angel he believed was never coming back, had screamed for his brother like he had in Hell.

Castiel had stopped. He had vanished states, years, dimensions away from Dean. When he had returned, he had soothed the wounds he left inside of Dean's body and sworn to protect Dean, always, even from the wrathful hand of his God.

"Much time has passed since that day," Castiel says. He slides his fingers around Dean's hole to soothe the rim, fluttering touches petting the rosebud red, soaking in the heat. "We are not the same as we once were. I will not hurt you this time. You must believe me."

"I do," Dean lies pitifully. His hips rise, skittish and clumsy as a colt, as Castiel's fingers begin to push inside. He digs his heels into the top of Castiel's shoulder blades. "I just - not this, Castiel. Can't - ah - " he hisses, jerks again when the fingers press just past his resistance. "Can't we work on obedience today? R-riding? My gag reflex?"

Dean barely flushes at the humiliation, though his heart stutters as he attempts to negotiate his lesson.  
Years ago, months ago, Dean never thought he would ask, genuinely and pleadingly, for lessons in obeying the absolute will of his God. But obedience is easy: it's mindless, heartless. It doesn't mean anything when Dean bends exactly how Castiel commands him to, when Dean gives Castiel exactly what he asks for.

And God (Castiel) help him, he actually likes riding Castiel. It's a sliver of power, a chance to move on his own, to seek his own pleasure without a thought (with the knowledge) that Castiel will follow him.

Dean doesn't hate sucking cock. It’s not as good, not as shameful, as when Castiel swallows him down, but it’s not terrible. The feeling of Castiel’s vessel in his mouth is warm and soft and he can’t deny there is a heady sense that floats through him at making a God whimper and whine.

“Do not fear, beloved,” Castiel soothes. He rubs Dean’s knee with one hand and sinks a tendril of grace through his muscles, relaxing his spine, his shuddering heart, his ass. “I will bring you only pleasure, not pain.”

“Please, don’t – d-don’t – “ Dean pants. Castiel’s four fingers slide an inch deeper. Dean tries not to clench around the burn, tries not to notice the sweetness of the ache. It almost – fuck, no – it almost feels good. Oh Christ, oh God, oh – “Castiel, I can’t – “

“You can.” Castiel pushes deeper. “You can, and you will.” 

Gasping, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and presses the side of his face into the pillow. His entire body shudders. Castiel leans forward, fingers sliding to the first knuckle, stretching his body so he can press his lips to Dean’s jaw. He kisses his way to the soft lobe of Dean’s ear before running his tongue over the warmth. Dean doesn’t even try to stop his moan at the heat, at the way the simple touch heats his entire body. 

Castiel moves his lips over Dean’s ear as he speaks. “You can take my fist. You will take my fist. And you will do it, Dean,” and Dean’s eyes fly open and he rasps in pleasurepain as Castiel’s fingers move deeper inside of him, “for me. You will do this for me. To show your love, your trust. To show you believe in me and yourself. In us.”

Dean stutters under the grace holding him down, holing him lax, keeping him from falling apart. Tearing him open. 

More magic mojo lube slicks Dean’s hole. He’s grateful for the extra slick when Castiel begins thrusting his fingers to the middle knuckle. In, out, in, out, the movement stretches and burns – but it burns like whiskey down his throat, delicious fire that spreads through his stomach and pounds through his brain. 

“I am going to sink into you now,” Castiel says. His gravel rough voice comes out a breath, and in spite of the discomfort, the pleasure, Dean feels smugness unfurl. Before the deepest of Purgatory’s darkness was cleansed from Castiel, the God called him an ant. Now Castiel calls him his beloved, but Dean still remembers the anger and hurt at being dismissed by his former friend. Each time he draws a human reaction from Castiel, something inside of him smirks. “Your body will accommodate your God and it will feel incredible.”

Before Dean can protest, Castiel presses all four of his fingers completely inside. Dean cries out in a breathy keen. God, Castiel, it does feel incredible. It aches, but it doesn’t hurt, and the ache is undeniably wonderful. 

Castiel drags his nose along Dean’s cheek before dropping gentle kisses that burn in stark contrast to the feeling of Castiel’s fingers stuffing his hole. “Does it hurt, beloved?” Dean’s body shakes. He can feel hot tears prickling his eyes. He shakes his head in an attempt to deny them, to deny Castiel. But his God is undeniable. Castiel wriggles his fingers, brushing Dean’s walls and prostrate, and Dean moans. “Dean.” Castiel pulls out a few inches then sinks slowly back in. Dean groans loud and long, whimpering when Castiel speeds his movements slightly. “Does. It. Hurt.”

“No,” Dean cries – cries out, cries, one hot tear rolling down his cheek. “No, you – son of a bitch, no – "

Castiel licks the tear from his skin, a soft noise falling from desert dry lips and into Dean’s pores. Dean can feel the God’s lips stretch into a smile. “I told you, Dean, to trust me.”

Dean doesn’t point out that this is just four fingers, not the entire fist of Castiel’s vessel. Maybe if he stays quiet, just whimpers around the stretch of Castiel moving shallowly inside of him, Castiel will abandon insanity. 

“Tell me,” Castiel growls softly against him. He moves to press a kiss to the side of Dean’s mouth. “Tell me,” he huffs again.

Dean moves his head to brush their lips together. It doesn’t buy him much time, but it’s enough to catch his breath. He’s not used to the feeling of Castiel stretching him so wide. He swears he can feel the fingers in his fucking throat, clogging his words. 

“Tell me how it feels. Tell me what I make you feel.”

Dean doesn’t even know if he can talk through the feeling of Castiel’s thrusts, which have quickened and sharpened. He tries to shake his head – he can’t – but Castiel kisses him again.

“You can,” Castiel whispers. “Tell me.” He accentuates the words with another blunt thrust. 

“G-good,” Dean whimpers, hating the weak, breathy tint of his voice. “Full, good, it – too much – “

“No.” Castiel kisses him softly as he moves his fingers quick and deep. “It is not too much. It is not enough. You are taking only four fingers, Dean. You will not be satisfied until you take my entire fist.”

If Dean could, he would flip Castiel off. It’s obvious that it’s Castiel who won’t be satisfied until Dean takes his entire fist. 

He tries to take a calming breath, but it’s hard to breathe around the thrust of Castiel’s fingers, the weight and fullness of them, the stings of pleasure. 

“Are you ready?”

Dean shakes his head. No, no, no, he’ll never be ready. Even if taking four wasn’t as terrifying and painful as the first time Castiel had tried to shove inside of him, he knows in his bones that Castiel’s fist in his ass will burn him to cinders. He knows it will hurt, sting like betrayal, like the loss of the angel on his shoulder. He can already feel the pain in his chest blooming, can imagine the pain that will shake from his ass up his spine to settle in his skull. He can already feel himself being ripped to shreds. 

“Castiel, please, please, don’t – "

A frustrated noise falls from Castiel’s mouth. “Why do you not trust me? Why can you not – I have shown you. I have protected the mortals you hold so dear, I have repaired your brother’s mind, I have saved you, I have given you pleasure, I have – I have given you everything, yet you will not – you refuse to trust that I will take of you.”

Dean shakes. He twists his head to look at his God, and finds Castiel watching him with blazing, hurricane eyes. There is pain there. It is the sharp, desperate pain that Dean knows in his rawest corners. It is the pain that shot through Dean’s soul when Cas betrayed him, left him; it is the pain he knows will shake his physical body if Castiel fists him like he wants to.

“It feels good,” Castiel says, angry and lost like the child he still is. “Four of my fingers feel good, you said it did – and I can feel it, in you, how good you feel. I can feel how close you are to coming on my fingers. Why will you – "

“I’m ready,” Dean gasps. He can’t listen to the strange ache in Castiel’s voice, to the dampened pang that sounds so much like Cas in those last moments. He can’t. He can’t take Castiel’s fist, either, but - but he can take the pain of a hand stretching his ass too wide and too full, better than he can take the thump in his heart. “I’m ready.”

“You do not believe you are. You do not believe you can take it, you do not trust me to take you gently – "

Dean lifts his head to capture Castiel’s mouth. The muscles of his arms strain as he surges forward, but he ignores the shaking. He shoves his cracking tongue past cracked lips, shoves the words back into that divine throat.

When he pulls back, he looks Castiel in his shining, shuddering gaze. “I’m – I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”

Castiel presses their lips together, a soft brush compared to Dean’s desperate push. “Yes,” he agrees, mouth moving over Dean’s. “You are.”

The pull of Castiel’s fingers from his ass is almost excruciating in the emptiness it leaves behind. Dean slides his right calf over Castiel’s shoulder, whining softly and shuddering. Castiel shifts backwards. He kisses Dean’s ankle as he slides his fingers all the way out. 

“Trust me, Dean, beloved.” He brushes his lips over the top of Dean’s foot as it twists. “Trust me.”

“Okay,” Dean says, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

When Castiel’s fist presses against his gaping, crimson rim, he feels a layer of slick on Castiel’s skin. His cock, hard and leaking, close to spurting, and long forgotten, twitches. God, Castiel, he is close to coming. So fucking close he thinks he might spill all over his stomach as soon as the fist of Castiel’s vessel sinks into his hole. 

God.

Castiel.

“P-please,” he stammers and he has no idea what he’s asking for. 

The first press of Castiel’s fist has Dean squirming. It’s ridiculous and he wishes he had the strength to remain stoic and still. His feet are twisting and his legs are moving restlessly over Castiel’s shoulders. 

“Be calm,” Castiel soothes. He runs the hand not sinking into Dean’s ass along the back of Dean’s thigh. He brushes his fingers up, along the back of Dean’s knee, then rubs his calf. “I will care for you.”

It takes forever and not nearly long enough for Castiel to sink his fist completely into his ass. He shakes as fingers, knuckles, the smooth back of his God’s hand slides with gentle, feather kissed pressure. 

“There,” Castiel gasps when he is full inside. He sounds awed.

Dean gasps, moans, cries as his ass stretches to accommodate Castiel’s vessel’s fist. His fist. God, Castiel, he can’t even imagine what his asshole must look like now, Hell fire red and stretched obscene around Castiel’s fucking fist. 

“Castiel.” Dean pants. “Too – too much. Feels – too much – gonna – gonna – " He’s babbling as Castiel shifts his fist – his fucking fist – inside of him. 

“Yes, you are, Dean. You are going to come,” Castiel smiles softly.

He moves his hand, gently, and Dean shudders around him. It doesn’t hurt. Dean doesn’t know if Castiel is using his grace to ease the pain or if the pleasure, the fullness, the perfection, of Castiel’s fist inside of him dims it. 

Castiel twists his hand and it feels like he’s brushing every good nerve in Dean’s body. Dean groans, pressing his calves hard into Castiel’s shoulders and arching his back. He tries to press his hips down, swallow more of those god damn magic fingers, but Castiel’s grace holds him still. 

“Bastard,” Dean growls, whines. “C’mon, told me to trust you, fuckin’ – "

“Shh,” Castiel whispers. He drops his mouth to Dean’s leg. “Trust me, my love, my Dean. Trust me to make you come.”

Dean makes a frustrated, deep noise. Castiel begins to twist his fist slightly faster, pushing slightly deeper, but still moving gently. So, so gently. 

He flexes his hands underneath his invisible bonds. His body shudders, sweats, and he wishes he could move into the press of Castiel’s hand searing his insides. 

“See, beloved? How much you are capable of?”

Dean nods frantically. He can barely hear the buzz of Castiel’s deep voice over the buzz of pleasure in his hears, the slow, honey build that is spreading from his brain to his toes. 

“Do you trust me, Dean? Do you finally see that I know best?”

No, Dean wants to croak, but his voice drags heavy and barbed in his throat. All he can do is groan low and dirty, filthy like Castiel’s entire hand flexing softly in his asshole. 

“Tell me you trust me, believe it, and I will make you come like you want to. Like you need to.”

Dean opens his mouth in a pant but the only thing that limps from his lips is a deep moan.

“Believe it,” Castiel commands. “Feel it in your soul as you feel me in your body. I told you could take this, and you could.”

“I – “ Dean rasps throatily. He can’t form the words. He can only shudder as another flashing wave of pleasure crashes over him. “C-Casti- “

“Feel it,” Castiel hisses, flexing his fingers. He presses perfectly against Dean’s prostrate and Dean shudders. “Feel it, Dean, feel your love for me, your trust.” He speeds his thrusts and Dean wants to cry it’s so, so fucking good. “Tell me. Say it.”

Trying to pull together his shaking pieces, Dean groans and clenches around Castiel’s fist. “I – I trust – ” He shudders as Castiel presses deeper. “F-fuck, please, please – ”

“Say it, Dean. Say it.”

“Castiel,” he cries sharply. “I trust – fuck, I trust you, I trust you, please.”

Castiel moves faster, deeper, but still so gently there is no sting. The ache building in his gut is nothing but pleasure. He squeezes his calves around Castiel’s neck, flexing his tendons. He arches even further off the bed as Castiel’s fist quickens. Heels digging into Castiel’s shoulders, fingers digging into the palms he can’t move, he nearly screams as Castiel’s wrist sinks hot past his rim. 

”Fuck,” he nearly screams. “Fuck, fuckin’ – fuck, Castiel.”

The words are ripped out as Castiel punches pleasure through him. His fist moves wild and hard and it doesn’t take long for Dean to come around it, screaming as his orgasm tears him apart.

He pants heavily as Castiel gently, gently eases his fist from his raw ass. 

There is barely a moment to recover before the grace holding his hands down dissipates. He doesn’t even have the time to blink before Castiel’s vessel is nude, clothes stripped at Castiel’s whim, and Castiel’s cock slides into his twitching, fucked out hole.

“Shit,” he huffs in sharp surprise. “Castiel – ” His hands fly behind Castiel’s neck, tangling with his ankles. 

Castiel groans deeply as he bottoms out in one slick, fluid motion. He buries his face into Dean’s neck. Dean doesn’t really need any time to adjust – he’s just had Castiel’s fist, fucking wrist, buried deep in his asshole – but he still shudders when Castiel starts thrusting deep and quick and incredible. 

“You do not – ” Castiel pants. He nips Dean’s neck, hitting Dean’s prostate, dragging moans from both of them. “You still do not trust me.”

Shocked, Dean shudders underneath his God. He struggles for words, actions. Castiel’s cock burns him even deeper than his fist as he snaps his hips. 

“Will you ever – why will you not – ” He shudders. His voice warbles as if he has no control over his throat and his hips move as if he has no control over his dick. He presses hard, so hard the slide of his cock would be almost brutal if the stretch didn’t make Dean’s already fucked out ass feel so damn good. 

“I do,” Dean shudders. 

“You do not.”

Dean is going to argue, to lie, but then Castiel’s scorching cock moves over his prostate. He thinks he may come again. He shakes. He doesn’t think his body can take it, he doesn’t think his heart and brain could take it. But then he feels the cool tingle of Castiel’s grace seeping into his muscles. 

“Oh, damn, Castiel – ”

He comes again, comes because Castiel wants him to. He knows how Castiel likes to feel his hole clench tight and hot around his vessel’s cock. 

Castiel follows him, spilling messy and deep against his raw, battered ass. 

They shudder. Their bodies shake against each other. 

Dean doesn’t know how long they stay like that, just breathing and sweating and trembling. When Castiel pulls out slowly, they both shudder.

“You will trust me,” Castiel breathes. He moves away, sliding from the bed, and Dean’s limbs fall limp to the bed. His arms and legs feel strange not clenched around Castiel’s burning body. 

The sound of Castiel’s clothes rustling back into existence rushes in Dean’s ears. 

“That is the lesson for today,” Castiel says. All traces of the Cas Dean once trusted has disappeared from his voice again. Dean closes his eyes as Castiel walks back to his side. Calloused fingers curl around chin, tilting his face. He opens his eyes and there it is again, the everything, nothingness of his God’s eyes. He squeezes them shut again. “What have you learned?”

Dean chokes on his laugh. 

“Z, Y, X, W – ”

The hand on his jaw tightens – gently. 

Castiel leans down to brush a kiss over his mouth. 

“I will see you for tomorrow’s lesson,” he says softly.

When Dean opens his eyes, his God is gone. 

Wincing, he rolls to his side. He needs a shower. He needs ten showers. Actually, he needs about ten hours in the giant whirlpool tub Castiel mojoed into the manor. He might even swipe some of those girly bath beads Sam has stashed away in his own bathroom. 

He’s too exhausted to walk to his en suite bath right now, though, so he pulls the sinfully soft comforter around him. As he drifts to sleep, he wonders what tomorrow’s lesson will be. He tries not to shudder, not to tremble in eager apprehensiveness or shake in fearful excitement. 

-

Castiel watches as Dean falls slowly to sleep. He drags his eyes over Dean’s body and calms the raging souls inside of him. 

Tomorrow, he tells himself, as he tells himself each day. Tomorrow will be the day the lesson sticks. Tomorrow will be the day his beloved mortal, his downfall, his strength, will trust him again. 

Dean twitches in his sleep. Castiel’s grace pulses fondly.

With a final glance, he transports himself across the country to attend to the sins of a preacher who speaks in his name and acts in the shadow of Hell.

Tomorrow, he tells himself again, and smiles gently to himself.


End file.
